


Suffering

by Illuvarion (LetTheShipsBurn)



Series: Quenta Illuvarion [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beating, Beleriand, Captivity, Dagor Bragollach, Doriath, First Age, Gen, Gondolin, Kinslaying, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Original Character(s), Quenya, Scars, Sindarin, Suffering, The Moriquendi, The Noldor, Torture, Violence, War of the Jewels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 14:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7272715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetTheShipsBurn/pseuds/Illuvarion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Moriquendi are bad neighbors, and not very helpful at all, or: Pain and Suffering in Doriath</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suffering

The siege was broken. Morgoth’s accursed forces had overrun our settlement in Himlad, and as I later learned, many other strongholds of the Noldor. Chaos ruled then, and this time was later known as the Dagor Braigollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

We had sustained heavy losses, and partially scattered. Though the heavy battle seemed over, in the confusion and small skirmishes, some were separated from the larger host of Curufin, son of Fëanor. I led my small company into the dreadful wilds of Nan Dungortheb, the haunted valley south of the Ered Gorgoroth, seeking for refuge at Gondolin.

We were beset in the vale by a band of orcs, and I lost several of my kinsmen; the rest scattered. I continued alone, but the journey grew too dangerous, and my injuries hindered me. I thought to seek aid in Doriath, though I knew the Moriquendi who dwelt there to be distrustful of the Noldor. Near to Doriath, I prepared myself for the Halls of Mandos, but soon beheld a figure in the half-light — tall, and clad in elvish-made armor. One of my kinsmen had found me.

“Aiya! Á tulë sinomë, nányë Silwë, ná harna!” I cried out in Quenya. _Come, it is Silwë, I am injured_.

A pause — and then I heard a voice call out in Sindarin, a language I did not yet understand, and another answer. These were not my kinsmen – I had been discovered by a band of the Moriquendi, likely elves of Doriath seeking to hold their borders. The elf stepped from the shadows, sword drawn. He spoke to me in his unfamiliar tongue, and I did not understand.

“Lá istan quetë lambëtya” I said in my own tongue. _I do not speak your language_.  
“What business have you in our lands, follower of accursed Fëanor?” he asked in slow Quenya, pronouncing these words as though they tasted bitter in his mouth.  
“My kinsmen and I sought for Gondolin, but were beset by enemies. My company was scattered, and I have been injured. I seek aid in Doriath.”

The elf regarded me. He was tall, though not as tall as I, and had the silvery hair typical of the Telerin elves. I saw only hate in his eyes. His kinsman joined him, and they conferred in their tongue for a time. I was taken captive and imprisoned. I was not to receive aid.

I spat at him the first time he struck me, and cursed him in Quenya.

“My family was slain at the Swan-havens, and I smell their blood on you yet. I do not intend your release.” he half-growled, and half spoke. These were the last words spoken to me in a language I understood, and though my captors made demands and insulted me in Sindarin, I did not understand. 

I do not know how long I was kept, for after the first week or two I stopped counting. I was doomed, of course, by my actions at Alqualondë, so I did not hope for death, either. I simply existed, and for this time, my existence was pain.

In those days, I wore my hair long, and had never cut it, not since I had arrived in Valinor and not since I had left for Beleriand. The elves of Doriath are highly superstitious in matters involving their hair, for reasons I have never understood. Needless to say, mine was shorn close nearly immediately. I was vain, and proud, and while the Noldor do not bear such superstitious beliefs about our hair, it pained me much more than I had thought it would. 

The days were good when it was simply beatings, and perhaps deprivation of food. But I was often made to suffer in other ways, some more creative than others. Most were simply wanton and violent; my main captor wielded many implements of torture against me. They allowed me time to run, thinking that I would indulge their desire to chase me. I did not, and simply put my back to the wall and my hands over my chest and face to protect myself, for I would rather bear the lash of whips on my sides than my face. 

And this is where the creativity came in. For when they had realized that I was far more heavily injured on my sides than anywhere else, it was obvious that this could be put to nefarious ends. I did not try to keep accurate mental records of the ways in which my wounds were kept from healing, but they were many. Sand, boiling or freezing water, broken pieces of small rocks. Hot metal. More whip lashes. Thorns. 

I still bear these scars to this day, jagged and violent, up both my sides from hip to chest.

I lay shivering and bleeding one day, wondering if perhaps Doriath was where Morgoth dwelt in secret. I would have asked how it was possible for the Eldar to enact such things upon each other, but I did not. I knew damn well how. On some level, perhaps, I wondered if I deserved this.

A new face came to the room in which I was kept, one afternoon. She spoke no Quenya, but looked concerned, and horrified. She gestured to my wounds, extensive all over, but worst upon my sides, of course. I understood generally that she was no healer, but that she would bandage me, which she did. She took me to the gates, and to my freedom. Exhausted and beyond care, I stole someone's horse — what was the worst that could happen? I rode hard to Gondolin.

When I arrived, my kinsmen were frantic; they thought I had perished. But I had arrived, months later. Injured, weak, with hair cut short and in ill-fitting Doriathian clothing. Women's clothing, from what I learnt, which actually made me laugh; I knew that my rescuer was unlikely to have found male-cut clothing to fit someone of my build.

"Silwë, what happened?" someone eventually asked, days later, when I had recovered enough to leave my bed.

“I sought the aid of the Moriquendi," I said. "I asked only for aid. They tortured me.”

I returned to my quarters, closed the door, and wept.


End file.
